


Black Dog

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Community: wincestbigbang, Embedded Images, Episode: s02e01 In My Time of Dying, Episode: s02e03 Bloodlust, Episode: s09e07 Bad Boys, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV John Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Pre-Series, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8445892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: John hated to let Dean think he’d been left to rot, but he could handle a couple of days in a group home. Sammy, though… John couldn’t risk that run-in with the local CPS. If he hauled ass he could drop Sam off at Bobby’s and be back in time for Dean’s arraignment. He’d have to. (Parallels flashbacks from 9x07.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to **[daemonrose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_the_Night/pseuds/daemonrose)** (on [LJ](http://daemonrose.livejournal.com/) and [Tumblr](http://daemonrose.tumblr.com/)), for her stunning creations. And as ever, **[crowroad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crowroad)** , beastest of betas and bestest of besties. All messiness is all mine, for she is flawless.

 

1995

“Where’s Dean?”

John didn’t have time to argue and he damn well knew if he said, _in jail,_ the questions would bury him. He lied. “He’s sittin on the rugaru til I can get back here. Things just got a little hairy and you’re safer out of state. How’s Uncle Bobby’s sound?”

Sam eyed him. “Can I finish the schoolyear in Sioux Falls?”

John bristled. Any minute now some overzealous social worker might come knocking. “Yeah, probably. I’m sure Uncle Bobby’d love to have you. Now go pack, Sam. We need to move.”

“Yes, sir.” Mercifully. A fragile moment when he asked, “Can I tell Dean bye?”

“Better not, big guy. Might be dangerous.” John held his cool. “I’ll have him call you as soon as it’s safe, okay?”

Sam squinted, but, “Yes, sir.”

John ran it as hard as he dared until Ohio’s hills broke toward the Indiana tollway. Sun rose in his rearview before he pulled off.

Sam stirred. “Where are we?”

“Travel plaza off I-90. You hungry?”

Sam yawned. “Uh-huh.”

John passed a few bills over the seat. “Listen, kiddo. I’m gonna nap here, maybe an hour. Grab me a sandwich and a coffee to go, huh?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam’s door creaked open. “Hey, Dad? Dean’s gonna be okay, right?”

John grinned, scrubbed a hand through Sam’s hair. “He’s fine, kiddo. You know your brother. Tough as whitleather.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

1999

Sam sucked his brother’s tongue, stroked down his chest. Licked away traces of Juicy Fruit, just stuck to the stall door. Dean moaned low, clawed at their belts. Sam pulled his wrists above his head and pinned them with one big hand to the clammy tiles.

“Don’t. Move.”

“God, you are such a brat.”

 

1995

Bobby met them in the yard, broad grin and bear hugs. “It’s good to see you, kid.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulders. “How bout you go put your bags down and hunt up Schwarzkopf? Dumb mutt misses ya.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks, Uncle Bobby.”

“You’re welcome. Now git on so me and your dad can talk.” Bobby led John into the kitchen and cracked two beers. “All right, what’s the crisis?”

“No crisis.” John shook his head. “Dean got picked up for shoplifting but they can’t arraign him til Monday. If it’s all right with you I’ll crash here a couple of hours, drive back through the night. Probably get em to drop the charges but if not, he’ll pay a fine, maybe get probation.”

“Where’s he now?”

“Some group home.” John swallowed long. “You watch. I’ll get back there and he’ll be runnin the place.”

“Most like.” Bobby chuckled. “So. Why bring Sam all the way out here?”

“It’s a small town. Dean’s busted, I’m in the wind. Won’t take em long to figure out he had a brother with him.”

“Right.” The old man nodded. “Sam gets put in the system…”

John shivered. “Probably better we don’t tell him Dean got arrested.”

“Your call.” Disapproving, but, “You know Sam’s welcome here, long as y’all want.”

“Thanks, man.” John went for the decent bottle stashed above the fridge. “You mind?”

“Make it two.”

John kept his eyes on his task. “I think…” He iced two glasses. “I’m gonna keep Dean with me for a while.” He poured a finger, downed it. “Those boys. They’re too close, Bobby.”

“Aw, come on—”

“They’re too… I dunno.” He carried the booze to the table. “You know what I’m talkin about. All the, knockin knees and throwin elbows.”

“That’s just boys, ain’t it?”

“They sit half on top of each other. Eat off each other’s plates. Sam treats Dean like his personal monkeybars and Dean encourages it.”

“Well…” Bobby drank. Rattled his ice. “Bout all them boys ever had was each other. Maybe it ain’t so strange they’re so close.”

“Maybe. But, I wanna give em some solo time.”

“Fair enough.” Bobby grinned. “So tell me about this werewolf. Heard Dean dropped it with a crossbow…”

 

1999

Sam nipped Dean’s neck and made him hiss with a hand on him, fingered through his boxer flap. Dean pulsed. Sam sank to a crouch, buried his face and inhaled deep. Crushed curls, heat and salt and damp.

“Fuck that’s nasty,” breathy and low.

Sam smirked. Swatted Dean’s ankles. “Spread em.”

“Bossy,” Dean complained but followed orders.

 

1995

Cleveland. He’d wanted to get past Cleveland before he bunked down. John blinked, four, five times. White lines multiplied. He yawned. _Won’t do Dean any good as a splat in the road._ Exit, front desk, phone.

“Singer Salvage.”

“Bobby.”

“John! I got good news. Dean’s off the hook for the shopliftin.”

“Really.”

“Yup. Called here this mornin, said this guy he’s stayin with—ay-uh, Sonny somethin—talked to the store manager. Got it all cleared up.”

“Wow.” John collapsed on the bed. “What do we know about this guy?”

“Not much. Ex con. Reformed, supposedly. Runs that boys’ home out of his farm.”

“And Dean’s there now?”

“Uh-huh. Says he’s safe enough, comfortable. Not runnin the place yet.”

John chuckled. “Did he talk to Sam?”

“Naw. Sam was out in the yard and Dean only had a minute. Anyhow I talked to this Sonny fella fore I hung up. He says Dean’s welcome to stay, start school, work for his keep.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“I’m just passin the message.”

“Thanks, man.” John rubbed his eyes. “Listen, I’m at the—” He sat up, poked around for a note pad. “Erieview Lodge.”

“Eerie view? That ain’t forebodin.”

“No.” John yawned, “Like, Lake Erie. Outside Amherst.”

Bobby laughed. “Literal, ain’tcha?”

“Smartass.” John checked his watch. “Look. As long as Dean’s safe I’m gonna rest up, resupply. I’ll be at this number the next, sixteen hours? Call you before I head out.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“Kiss my ass.”

Next moves: shower, shit, and sheets. Watch set for oh-six-hundred and a bottle of rotgut. Bad TV, good night’s sleep. Grab Dean, get back after that rugaru.

 

1999

Sam shoved denim and cotton down. “Quit your bitchin.” Quick jerk. “I’m about to suck out your brains through your dick so don’t act like you don’t like it.”

Hands braced on his brother’s hips, tiptoes in shallow pisswater. Soft breaths reverbed off the fixtures. Thundered. Dean watched, Sam watched back. Trailed licked lips up Dean’s underside, tongued at the vein.

 

1995

John mustered early to gray skies and punishing lake winds. Slid in a diner booth for a cup of coffee, opened a _Plain Dealer_.

Front page: “CANNIBAL MURDERS SHOCK THE LAKESHORE”

Erie put the fuckin rugaru closer to John than Dean. Close enough to pick up its trail by nightfall, maybe flambé it by dawn. Or he could run to New York first, give up a vic and the scent in exchange for backup.

John decided he’d call Bobby the next time he lit somewhere, get this Sonny character’s number. Let Dean know he was on his way, to sit tight. John dropped a five on the table and headed into Pennsylvania.

Late morning sun broke through and Route 20 shined, wet with melt from the dirty snow banked on the shoulders. Bare branches tangled stark against the sky. Towns rolled by, one pretty much the same as another. Gas stations and churches. Century-old brick storefronts.

Stops at the Erie library, courthouse, cop shop. Actual Feds had turned up for a two-state cannibal killer. John had to cook up a cover as a Marshal with, “a personal interest.” Witness interviews, same line he heard in Buffalo: dark hair, bomber jacket, blood all over the place.

Dusk found him parked at the edge of town, thermos of coffee and a police scanner for company. Too quiet. Dean should have been there, running his mouth while Sam groaned and kicked the seat back.

John drummed the wheel.

Fussed with the radio.

Stared at the lake.

Pink skies behind him signaled a bust. John rubbed his eyes. He needed intel. He needed breakfast and four hours, minimum. He needed to get ahold of Bobby, get word to Sam, and Dean.

“This is Singer Salvage, please—”

“Matt Regent, FBI—”

“You’ve reached the office of Dr. Bill Taylor—”

“You should not have this number.”

“Bobby.” John gave up. “Look, man. You ain’t gonna like this. But I got a line on this rugaru and I wanna end it. You hear from Dean, you tell him three days, a week tops. Tell him to watch his back. I’ll call with a contact number tonight.”

He hung up the phone and pressed his forehead to the shelter’s cool Plexi. Took a deep breath and opened the yellow pages. Found a diner, cheap motel. Liquor store. He’d have work to do come sundown.

 

1999

“Dammit, Sammy, come on. Hurry up.” Dean squirmed.

Sam dragged Dean’s cockhead across his lips, spread his taste around. Gravelly moans. Fist tight at the base and Sam rolled his tongue, sucked tight and rocked shoulders until he choked. Dean’s hands landed heavy, scratched his scalp, thumbed his temples. Spit and tears smeared over his face and Sam nursed. Jacked Dean with his mouth.

 

1995

The cannibal killer mysteriously vanished, but not before dropping two bodies in Pittsburgh. One week stretched into two while John chased alleged animal attacks clear down to the Smoky Mountains. Damned thing kept getting smarter, better at covering its tracks.

At least he didn’t have to deal with the real FBI anymore.

John recited his questions: “Seen anybody new in town? Noticed a strange car?”

“Why, yes, as a matter-fact.” Old-timer. Baseball cap, bib overalls, and a chewed toothpick. Moonshine in a mason jar short of the full stereotype.

John snapped to attention.

“Wasn’t much to look at, some kinda tan rice-burner. Had New York tags though, and I thought—”

_Gotcha._

“—parked over by the old theater.”

Broken neon and boarded windows faced what was probably the main drag in this town before the Interstate came through. John saw its appeal, as monster digs. Block was deserted and the long row of empty store fronts ended at a park that fed into the national forest. Stashed in a loading dock around the side John found a Maxima. Tan. New York plates.

Inside the car was hospital clean. No floor mats but new seat covers. John popped the lock and searched the glove box. Theodore Gressler. Didn’t sound like a psycho. Trunk interior: ripped out, bare metal and empty spare compartment. Rolls of clear plastic and thick black trash bags…

Old Marine buddy had made state trooper in Colorado. John spotted a pay phone and fumbled out his calling card.

“What can I do you for, Winchester?”

Blanchard once saved John’s ass in the paddies. John saved his from a banshee.

“What can you get me on Theodore Gressler, New York state?” Plate, VIN, ZIP.

“Right now? Valid license, no warrants.”

“What can you get me in twelve hours?”

“Twelve hours is oh-four-hundred, asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah. What can you get me by noon tomorrow?”

“Everything.”

“I owe you man.”

“Damn right you do.”

John kept his eyes on the car. Had a pizza delivered to the gas station down the street. Tall coffee and a six pack.

Lucky. Not long past dusk a furtive figure in a bomber jacket cornered the building and made for the trunk. John stepped out, leveled his pistol and clicked off the safety. Gressler’s hands came up.

“That won’t kill me.”

“No, but it’ll hurt like a sonofabitch. Do some brain damage…”

“What do you want?”

“Get on your knees.”

“No.”

John grit his teeth. Had to figure the thing wasn’t gonna let him do this clean.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen.” Gressler turned, slow. Beady, blood-soaked eyes, gray shriveled skin. Pink froth framed his mouth. “I’m gonna get in my car and drive off. You can shoot me if you—”

John unloaded thirty thousand volts from his left hand. _This better work, Blanchard._ Paper confetti sprayed and Gressler, sort of, twitched. Went down in a heap.

John had him in a knockout hold before he got his shit together. Rolled him into the driver’s seat, lit a cigarette and dropped in it Gressler’s crotch. Cracked a window and drove off a block, idled. Watched in his rearview until the interior lit up with flame.

 

1999

“Dirty little bitch gonna swallow it all, huh?” Dean pumped into him, ran his mouth when he got close.

Turned hinges and footsteps. Dean’s fist wedged between his teeth, eyes squeezed and body rattled. Sam pried a hand between Dean’s thighs and he lurched. Slipped down the wall, spread wider.

 

1995

Took John another two weeks to get to back to Dean. Hunter he owed bad pinned him down outside of Knoxville, dragged him after a he-witch running with a biker gang. Nightmare. Last bunch of guys he wanted knowing he had a family. Managed to call “his old lady Bobbie” once and say he was off the grid so don’t wait up. Translation: _I’m safe but I can’t talk. Hold the fort._ He got gone once they’d set up the guy for a snitch. Let the club take care of him.

John mopped up the last of his egg yolk with toast. Drained his mug. Quiet in the diner, him and a handful of old-timers sucking down coffee. Door chimed open for a skinny guy, hippie-type. Dusty jeans and a cowboy shirt. Skinny parked it two stools down.

“Sonny!” Pot-bellied cook came around the partition, wiping hands on a greasy apron. “How goes the molding of young minds?”

“Heya, Cus.” Sonny grinned. “It’s a living, man. It’s good.”

Cus poured two cups and leaned against the counter. “My Robin can’t shut up about that new boy of yours.”

“What, Dean?”

John pokerfaced.

“That’s the one,” Cus said. “Sonny, man, you know I appreciate what you do out there on that farm. But some of them kids are delinquents and that’s my baby girl.”

John stifled his grin.

Sonny shook his head, handlebar mustache stretched around a low laugh. “I get that. But I gotta tell ya. Dean’s probably the last kid I’ve ever had you should worry about.”

“That so.”

John doubted it.

“Never seen a boy take to the work, the discipline so easy. And the little ones worship him. I went ahead and made him foreman. They all do what he says anyway.”

_Running the place._

Cus laughed. “Yeah, I heard. Missus says he’s got a, ‘entourage.’ Sounds like a trail of baby ducklings, y’ask me.”

“More or less,” Sonny agreed. “Kid’s whip-smart too, teachers love him. Coach Mack snapped him out of P.E. for the wrestling team and he’s already gunnin for State.”

“Hmph.” The men sipped in silence a while, then, “Robin says, he’s got some kind of weird religion.”

John’s eyes snapped over.

“He ain’t some kinda devil worshipper is he?”

“I don’t think so,” Sonny said. “I looked up some of the symbols he’s carved on his bedposts. They all seem… I dunno, benevolent? Like, protection from demons and ghosts?”

John’s shoulders eased but Cus didn’t look convinced. “Demons, huh?”

Sonny shrugged. “People believe in stranger things. This kid. He won’t open up at all about his life, his dad. Supposedly he has a little brother with an uncle somewhere but he won’t talk to me about it.”

Cus pushed back from the counter, shook his head. “Well. God alone knows what most of those boys of yours have been through.”

“Amen, brother.”

“You want breakfast?”

“Nah, just a joe to go. Gotta get back.”

“You got it.” Cus brought over a Styrofoam cup.

“Seriously, man. Dean’s a good kid.”

“Well, I’m gonna take your word for it.” Cus tipped his chin. “But you keep an eye on that boy when my Robin’s out there, you hear me? I’m too young to be a grandpa.”

Sonny raised his hands, grinned. “Loud and clear.” He collected his coffee and stood. “See you round, Cus.”

 

1999

Urinal flushed. Sam’s throat worked, black spots burst and he thought, _One of these days I’m gonna make you break the wall when you throw back your head like that._

Dean rocked and jolted into him, dared a gasp when the faucet opened. Sam dug in with his fingers and let his eyes fall closed and yeah. Swallowed it all.

 

1995

Doorbell chimed Sonny out. John waved for a refill. “Say-uh. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but-ah…”

Cus chuckled. “Not a lotta secrets, little town like this.”

“Can I ask you something?” John took a breath. “This farm. Is it, is it a nice place? Do the boys do good there?”

“Oh yeah!” Cus bobbed his head. “That Sonny. He’s good people. Screwed up some when he was a kid, but honestly, I think it helps him.” Conspiratorial grin. “Knows all the tricks so the boys can’t get it over on him.”

John’s turn to chuckle.

“My missus gives guitar lessons out there, and I gotta tell ya. Some of those kids? You wouldn’t believe half of what they’ve seen.”

_And you wouldn’t believe half of what I’d believe._

“Get you anything else?”

“Nah. Thanks, man.”

Cus ambled back toward his kitchen. “Lemme know if you change your mind.”

 _Change your mind._ John drained his coffee, scalded him all the way down. Threw twenty dollars on the counter and made half-dazed for the car. Guts in a blender. Mental pictures.

Red and squalling in Mary’s arms. “Dean. After your mother.”

Tiny glossy black BMX. “A man needs wheels, right champ?”

Chubby fingers, smudged nursery window. “Gotta be quiet, bud. Nurses’ll throw us out.”

God, that grin, when he’d first laid eyes on his baby brother. John dropped his head back on the seat.

Green eyes wide with mirrored flames. “Now, Dean, go!”

First shot, old bolt-action. Glittering glass on the quarry floor.

Last werewolf. Dean’s wrists, bloody and black in the pyre light. Green eyes wide with something else, something sharp that set John shivering.

He threw open the door and threw up his breakfast.

Sam still needed protecting, needed _watching._ Dean could…

John started the car. If he was smart he’d go looking for a chupacabra in Baja. Continent of distance wouldn’t make it any easier, but, he’d have to work a lot harder to chicken out.

 

1999

Dean had him up and around, cheek smashed to the metal partition so fast Sam nearly came right there. Dean wrestled his pants down, wet dick jammed against his ass. “What the fuck is the matter with you, do you wanna get caught?”

 _Kind of._ “I like making you come when you think we’ll get caught.”

Dean’s head thumped between his shoulders, fingers wound around his cock. “Oh no, perv-boy, this is _your_ weird fetish.”

Sam groaned.

 

1995

“Bobby I… I lost Dean.”

“You what?”

“I’ll explain everything later. Sam’s got a month of school left so you two just, sit tight, okay? I don’t have a lot of time.” Miracle John kept from puking again.

Scranton, stopped the vengeful shade of a murdered mistress tormenting apartment dwellers.

Laid some Confederate soldiers to rest around Blacksburg.

Put down a skinwalker pack outside of Little Rock.

Mostly he kept moving, ducking hunters’ hangouts. Practiced, “I’m so sorry, son. I was too late.”

No surprise he blundered into a black dog. Drinking himself unconscious wasn’t exactly sleeping. Four-hour berths in between long drives and dug graves for… John had forgotten how many days. He blinked once too often and the son of a bitch was loping right at him. Managed to hold the road and find the shoulder in one piece. Loaded up salt in a sawed-off and set out to follow the thing.

Black dogs… troubled him. Human souls, lost. Cursed for whatever reason to haunt the highways. Usually, if you left them alone, they’d pass you right by. Trouble came when you met one behind the wheel, half-asleep. Good way to wind up in a box.

He scanned the road. Damned dog made good time. John took off in a trot, gained ground until he pulled within ten paces or so. Cattle fences flanked most of the stretch and low scrub dotted the ground. Not much moon but he managed. Cars passed now and then. He must have looked like a maniac, he thought, jogging along in the dark. All the good and decent well rested people never saw the black shaggy horror ahead of him. Drove right through it, never the wiser.

Abruptly the dog veered off the road, shambled into the tall brown grass. John picked up his pace, tried to keep the trail, but, as big as it was the dog’s head bobbed mostly out of view. Surrounding stalks swayed in the breeze, undisturbed.

John searched the field…

Nothing.

He rubbed his eyes. It’d been a longshot anyway, thinking the thing might lead him to its grave. Then a mournful howl sent a shudder through him. Distant pets barked up a frenzy and John turned. Two o’clock. Fifteen paces and the dog came into view. Lifted its head, and hackles.

John raised his weapon, slow. Held his ground while it bayed again, wouldn’t shoot unless he had to. He inched closer. Picked up a glimmer, peeking out from a shallow dirt pile. Barely looking away from the dog, he knelt.

Class ring. Paloma.

She turned on him soon as he started digging. Lotta hassle, shoveling with one hand and swinging a crowbar with the other. If Dean were here—

John winced and the dog got the drop. Drove his back to the parched ground and all the air out of his lungs. Slobbered over him, hot breath half suffocated him. He fumbled his lighter out.

Dry grass exploded into fire, taking exposed bones with it. Paloma wailed above him and he hoped he’d dug up enough to get her off him. Blaze crackled and John’s pant leg smoldered, stink of burnt hair drifted up.

Slower than he might have liked the black dog flamed out. John beat at his jeans, rolled, smothered embers. Quick as he could he collected his gear and bugged out for the car. Didn’t wanna be anywhere close if that fire ran wild.

 

1999

“What if that guy saw you on your knees?” Dean breathed. “What if he didn’t leave?”

Dean pressed against him. Sam’s dick grazed cold steel.

“What if he’s out there right now, listening. Hand jammed down his pants—”

Sam shuddered and shot all over the stall. Dean’s lips feathered behind his neck.

 

1995

Pay phone, plastered in band logos and bumper stickers. Thin doors barely muted the roadhouse jukebox. Stink of the heads wafted out from the other direction and men speaking Spanish gave him hard looks.

Probably, he should have sobered up before he called—

“You dumb drunk sonofabitch where in the Hell have you been?”

—but he’d never have worked up the courage.

“You find Dean?”

“I—” John’s voice broke. “I know where he is.”

“Thank, fuck.” Bobby lit into him. “Grab him and get your ass back here. Sam’s completely off the reservation. Beat the shit out of some kid at school and now—”

_Sam?_

“—huntin _you_ , turned one of my outbuildins into a case room, which—”

“Hang on.”

“—put together some real solid leads, so be proud of that, anyway.” Old man swung sarcasm like a tire iron.

“Bobby.”

“—mad as Hell I won’t let him come after you. Schwarzkopf won’t go near him and I just as soon wouldn’t either. He’s goddamn scary, and I don’t—”

“Wait. Scary like—”

“No,” Bobby paused, finally. “I been slippin him holy water every chance I get and it ain’t that.”

John breathed. Still, a fistfight? Sammy’d cut you to pieces with that smart mouth of his, but… “Why’d he beat up the kid?”

“Way I heard it they found this baby bird, down on the ground. Sam wanted to rescue it, but this other kid said it was better off dead cause-uh, its family didn’t want it anymore.”

John’s head hurt.

“Sam just started wailin on him. Took two teachers to peel him off and he bloodied one of their noses. _He_ says he just wanted to protect the bird and he doesn’t remember the fight.” Bobby sighed. “Just, get here, willya? He’s your kid, John. He needs his daddy.”

 _Needs his brother,_ John amended. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

He stumbled out to the car, crawled in the back, made to sleep off the worst. Half dreamed and half remembered, ever since Sam was a baby.

Colicky, wouldn’t take formula after…

Livid, when he couldn’t follow Dean to the fourth grade.

Merciless, questioning hunts and moves and wards and nothing John had done had been right since Sam learned to tell him so.

Last move. Sam stomped around, set chin and death glare, threw shit into duffles.

Until Dean came home, got an arm around Sam’s shoulders, poked his ribs. Five minutes later they were throwing dirty shorts at each other and laughing, which, wasn’t exactly productive, but still. At least it hadn’t been another tickle fight.

_That’s just boys, ain’t it?_

John wished he could believe it.

 

1999

Sam pinned his brother inside the door for one last kiss. Cradled his face.

Dean bristled, shoved. “C’mon, man. Dad’s waitin.”

Sam stepped back. Conciliatory smile, but, _One of these days you’re gonna learn we don’t belong to him._

 

1995

John hovered in the doorway while Sam field stripped an M9 at Bobby’s kitchen table. He looked up at last, clicked off his stopwatch.

“Where’s Dean?” Eerie calm. Pistol huge in his little-boy hands.

“Listen, Sammy, I didn’t tell you before cause I didn’t wanna worry you. But-ah Dean, well, he went missing for a while.”

“I know that. Uncle Bobby told me. I asked, where _is he?”_ Sam never raised his voice but rage simmered in the clench of his jaw, flash of his eyes.

John didn’t lie. “He’s on a farm back East. Resting up.”

“Is he okay?” Accusing.

“Better than ever, buddy.” John swallowed.

“Are we going to get him?”

“Yeah. Headin out first light.”

Sam set down the gun and took a breath. “I’ll go pack.”

Shirt stretched tight across his retreating shoulders and his jeans were too short. They’d have to swing by John’s lockup, dig out some more of Dean’s old stuff. Or, he thought, Sam had a birthday coming up. Maybe he’d spring for a shopping trip, loan Dean the car.

John settled in the living room across from Bobby. “He seems, subdued.”

Bobby nodded. “Soon as I told him you’s comin he took it down a notch.” The old man pulled a bottle from under his chair and passed it over. “What the hell happened out there?”

John swallowed long. Rumbled, “Dean had a chance to get out. I tried to give it to him.”

Wheels turned and Bobby put it together. “He’s been at that boys’ home this whole time. You goddamn…” Hands balled into fists. “Do you know what Sam’s been through? What _I’ve_ been through?”

John’s stomach churned. “I know. I was coming here to tell you I burned his bones. Take Sam, disappear.”

“I oughta break your fuckin nose.”

He earned that. “What can I tell you? Dean’s back in school, has a girl—on the wrestling team, for God’s sakes, and when has Dean ever joined anything?” He rubbed his mouth. “I never wanted this life for him, _Mary_ never…” That shut him up. He took another swallow and risked a look.

Bobby’s lip curled. Eyes gleamed. “And you thought you’d just, say he died.”

“Ain’t like it was easy!” John barked. “That… demon,” he choked, “took everything. What if… What if one of us could get it back?”

Bobby drew up his mouth: _I don’t like it but I get it._ He walked to the window and looked out. “So what now?”

“Like I told Sam, head out first light. Get to Dean Saturday night-ish.”

“And what if he wants to stay? Sounds like he’s got a good deal goin there.”

Sam came down the stairs, started collecting his books. John watched him. “He won’t.”

 

1999

John screwed on the gas cap and flipped up the plate. Swiped one last time with the squeegee and checked his watch. Not much longer and Sam and Dean would tumble out smelling like toothpaste and truck stop Obsession and act like the old man didn’t have a clue.

He pulled around to the diner and got them a table. Ordered a 7-Up to calm his stomach. Too much. Too much riding on Dean keeping Sammy in check.

 

1995

Daybreak found Sam on the porch. Duffles cluttered the steps.

“You ready, champ?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam stretched across the backseat and went out.

Thirty hours, give or take, and Sammy never once complained. Slept, mostly, barely said ten words at all. He dug up a model plane from somewhere, held it out the window and made jet noises. Hummed off-key with the radio.

John met Sonny with the motor running.

Dean dumped his bags in the trunk and went straight for the back passenger door. Crawled in on top of Sam. “Move it, munchkin.”

“Get offa me, dick!” Plastic plane clattered to the floorboard.

“Language, Sam.” John bristled, gripped the wheel and Sam, despite what he’d said, gripped Dean’s lapels. Dean laughed, pushed Sam down in the seat, tried to pin him.

Sam fought like a fish. “Stop it, Dean. ’M serious.”

“Hey guys, settle it down back there, huh?” John pointed the car toward the highway.

“Yes, sir,” perfect unison.

John heard rustling, murmuring. He checked the rearview and found Sam draped in Dean’s lap.

“You’re okay, right?” Barely audible.

“You kiddin me? I’m aces.” Dean met John’s eyes. Tiniest nod and, “How bout you? Cause I’ll take a hundred monsters over the sixth grade any day.”

John reflex-opened his mouth: _Sam, what have I told you about climbing on your brother?_ but he locked it down. Watched the road instead.

 

1999

“So…” Dean scuffed his boot on the carpet. “Our own room.”

Sam’s bags hit the floor and he sprawled. “And thank you, Dad! I am _so_ too big for a rollawa—”

“Sammy, he knows.”

“Shut up.”

“You seen how he looks at us lately?”

Sam bristled. Dad had always kind of looked at him like—

“Like he’s freaked out. And now…” Dean’s eyes darted.

“Sure, Dean.” Withering. “That makes perfect sense. Dad finds out we’re screwing around and—”

“Jesus, man, say it louder.”

“—and instead of burning a clip in us, he buys us a room.”

Dean squinted. Sam closed on him. Nose in the short hairs above Dean’s ear, he whispered, “Hey. So what if he knows?”

“That’s a fuckin joke, right?”

“What’s he gonna do about it?” _Disown us?_ Sam should be so lucky.

“Besides the-ah, aforementioned clip?” Dean shouldered him off. “Just, knock it off, okay? This is weird.”

“Dean.” Sam circled. Dean inched away. Sam hooked a belt loop and towed him back. Dove for a kiss. “You saying no?”

Dean dragged a thumb across Sam’s mouth and Sam crashed into him, deep licks, low grunts and teeth clicks. Dean bowed his back. “Hey. Hey take it easy, huh? Lemme take care of you.”

Sam’s forehead wrinkled.

“Trust me.” Dean sucked soft at Sam’s bottom lip. Fed in his tongue, curled and tasted. Sam moaned. Dean pecked at the edge of his mouth, tangled fingers in his hair. “Go shower. I’ll get everything ready and meet you in there.”

Sam stepped into a salmon pink tub with a curtain that might have been white once. He brushed his teeth while the water warmed. Scrubbed his hair, his pits. He’d just started between his legs when the curtain scraped open.

“You should really let me do that.” Dean looked Sam up and down. Moved under the stream, tipped back his head and soaked his face. Sam stared. Rivers poured down Dean’s neck, over his shoulders. Drops hung from his lips and clumped his lashes together.

He pointed the spray at the wall. “Gimme that.” Dean soaped his hands and slid them all down Sam’s sides. Stroked his belly.

Sam held back, until Dean pulled him in, kissed him wet and they grazed each other. Sam groaned. Dean got a soap slick hand around him and squeezed.

Sam reached. “Can I?”

Dean rumbled, “Yeah. Come on,” and more kissing, bashing noses and scraping teeth. Dean crowded him against the fiberglass, propped a foot on the tub edge, elbow at Sam’s ear. Water splashed. Sam raked knuckles across Dean’s stomach, pumped his fist while he palmed Dean’s face. Steamy, slippery suds over Dean’s callused fingers, Sam’s hips stuttered and Dean started muttering. “Aw. God. Fuck. Sammy that’s—” gasping, “faster, man, come on, I—” grunting, “give it up for me.”

Sam grit his teeth to stop from howling. Come hit hot on his thigh.

Dean herded him out and dried him off. Curls clung to his temples. Kissing again, until Sam’s lips burned. Pressed hard to the vanity, slipping feet and digging nails. Sweat sprung up and mixed between them. Dean dragged him out to the bedroom by a towel around his waist.

Low light. Covers turned back. Chain and deadbolt locked. Door salted.

“C’mon, brat.” Dean swept a leg. They crashed to the mattress.

 

2006

Footsteps echoed hollow across cold concrete. Water dripped and steam hissed. Hospital smell gave way to fuel oil and mildew and in the shadows a boiler groaned. Slow-turning fans split the light but John broke out in sweat. Ignored the ache in his knees and the grind in his teeth as the chalk screeched over the floor. Winced, as the blade split his palm and spilled his blood.

He began to chant. Sam’s _Go to Hell_ bounced inside his skull. Fitting, he guessed. He’d sold his soul to keep his boys together years ago.

John struck the match.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out Rose's [bonus art](http://daemonrose.tumblr.com/post/152649063376/heres-an-additional-explicit-little-scratch-i) (NSFW) and leave her some love on Tumblr. ^_^


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